


Those Three Words

by CantSpeakFae



Series: The Wretched: One Shots [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, But let's not talk about it, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It's hard to talk about feelings, M/M, PTSD, Ripper's in love, We all know how this ends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 14:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantSpeakFae/pseuds/CantSpeakFae
Summary: Five times that Ripper almost says "I love you."(Plus one time that he still doesn't say it.)





	Those Three Words

1.

Before Randall came bounding into his life like a little, lost pup, Ripper only knew of three important “F” words in life.

Fighting, Fucking, and Food.

Seemed simple enough, then. He lived day-to-day, counting the hours by how many brawls he could start (and finish), how many pretty birds he could talk into bed, and how many chips he could consume in a single sitting, washed down with beer and a belch loud enough to earn him a scandalized look from the bint sitting three tables away, while Phil, Tom, and Rayne laughed and Deirdre rolled her eyes, looking scandalized to be seen with him in public.

‘Course, then comes Randy. And a new “F” word.

 _Feelings_.

Ripper might be aces when it comes to scraps or getting his end way, but talking about how he feels? Saying what he means and meanings what he says? Not his strong suit. Not the way of the stiff-upper-lip Imperialism that had been pounded into his skull since before he could walk.

They’re not doing anything special and nothing magical happens at the revelation. No fireworks. No chorus of angels or holy light from the heavens to make Randall’s face glow. They’re just sitting on the couch, watching something on the crap telly. Not even looking at each other. But Ripper runs his fingers through Randall’s dark messy hair without thinking and kisses the side of his head without tearing his eyes from the telly.

That’s what startles him. The ease of familiarity. The content sigh from Randall’s lips. Ripper’s eyes finally leave the screen and settle on the man next to him. When he looked at Randall - handsome, kind, perfect Randall - he knew that he’d never been more sure about anything in his young life than he is that he loves him.

He even opens his mouth to tell him so.

“Randy…”

But then Randall, feeling Ripper tensing next to him, turns his head and meets Ripper’s gaze, and the words die on Ripper’s tongue.

What if it’s too early?

What if Randall doesn’t feel the same way?

He changes the words. “...D’you wanna watch something else?”

Randall looks surprised, but only smiles gently.

“This is fine.” He says, turning his gaze back.

He does scoot a little closer to Ripper, though, who mentally curses himself for not just saying it.

One day, he will.

* * *

2.

The second time he almost says it, it’d been his turn to let Eyghon possess him.

Everything had been going according to plan. Ripper’d been set to beat his own - and the highest overall - record of containing Eyghon for an hour, and he’d even stayed up all the night before to make sure that he’d fall asleep faster. Bad idea, he’d learned, because the weaker the host’s mind was, the easier it was for Eyghon to wrest full-control. The demon in Ripper’s skin had somehow managed to break the salt circle that kept him contained and had lunged at Thomas, who’d been standing nearest to him, only for Sutcliffe to get knocked the fuck out of the way by Randall, who saved his life but put himself in danger.

It was dumb fucking luck that Eyghon wasn’t particularly powerful and the small part of Ripper that still had some control had reeled back at the sight of his hands wrapped around Randall’s throat, throwing him down long enough for them to chant the spell to rip Eyghon back out of him.

Dumb fucking luck.

And he’s furious as they sit outside of the warehouse. Furious with himself and furious with Randall. How could they have been so stupid? Ripper, with not sleeping, and Randall with putting himself in harm’s way for fucking _Thomas_  of all people. He hasn’t been able to look at any of them since it was over. He’d just stormed out and dropped down to the ground, head in his hands, not even looking up when Randy followed him out and settled down next to him.

“...I’m sorry,” Randall says, finally. His voice is a little strained. Probably from being fucking strangled.

Ripper lifts his head, turning to look over at him. He’s going to have bruises, tomorrow. Bruises that he put there.

“Don’t fucking apologize to me,” Ripper says, harshly, his heart sinking when Randall flinches.

“Sorry,” Randall says, again, paling slightly when he realizes he's just done it again.

Ripper tilts his head back, banging it against the building. It hurts, but he doesn’t mind. A grim part of him thinks he deserves it. Randall doesn’t seem to share that thought, because his hand is already behind Ripper’s head, the second time he tries to smash his skull against the wall, stopping him from hurting himself.

“...Are you mad at me?” Randall asks, then.

“You shouldn’t have jumped out in front of Thomas. You could have been hurt. I could have really -”

The words get stuck in his throat. He swallows hard.

“No, I’m not mad at you. I’m fucking pissed at myself. I was _choking_ you. I put my hands around your throat and -”

“Eyghon did that. Not you.” Randall says, firmly, cutting off Ripper’s words before he can spiral too far down. “That wasn’t you. You know what was you? Letting go of me. Skittering back like you’d been burned and holding yourself down so we could get him back out of you. Okay? You’d never hurt me. I know that.”

Does he, though? Ripper’s not so sure. He knows that Randall has been to hell and back so many times that he’s practically staked out a summer home, there. And he doesn’t miss the way that he sometimes flinches when Ripper moves his hand in an unexpected way or moves too fast in his direction. Like he’s expecting a hit.

Ripper had never meant to give him an actual reason to be afraid.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” He says, his voice sounding usually strained to his own ears. “Never, Randy. I -”

He almost says love. But he can’t.

“-care about you.”

Randall laughs. It’s a sad sound, and he nudges his shoulder against Ripper’s.

“I know you do.”

 

* * *

3.

The third time that Ripper almost says it, Randall’s being annoying.

Randall’s always annoying. He’s got this way of looking at things that grate on Ripper’s nerves; this unwavering need to see the best in everyone. Randall’s blinded by the bright side of things, and that’s why he never realizes how badly he’s being treated by those people he sees “the best” in because he can’t fucking _see_. Randall’s too much.

He’s too hopeful.

He’s too energetic.

He’s too pure.

Ripper’s never been so fucking afraid of anyone so fucking short. Every time he sees him, his heart falls in his chest because there are just too many things in life that can damage someone that fragile and knowing that he’s one of those things makes his stomach twist.

He didn’t always think about things like this. Randall used to be the cute boy with the cute arse who could play the drums and do a decent bit of magic to make the high a little more thrilling. And now he’s… well, all of those things but different in Ripper’s eyes. Someone who deserves better than the shit that Ripper’ll get him into.

Better than the shit that all of these people will get him into. Especially his mum.

Today, that’s what’s annoying him. Randall’s been sitting on the couch, next to Lia, speaking softly to her in Italian. Ripper’s passable, but not fluent, so he doesn’t know all of what Randy’s saying, but he knows enough that he’s comforting her. Telling her that everything is going to be okay.

She doesn’t deserve to hear those things from him. Ripper’s seen the bloody crucifix that Lia burned onto the back of Randall’s neck. He’s seen the way the lad shakes when he’s presented with a body of water, no matter how small, because he’s scared that someone is going to hold him down and “baptize” him like his mother always did.

Ripper hates that Randall still comforts her.

He tells him so, too, later. When Lia’s finally been coaxed back to her own fucking flat and out of his and Randall’s. He snaps it out at the boy who’s started rifling through the fridge and wants to roll his eyes when Randall only shrugs.

“She’s my mother, Ripper,” Randall says like that makes up for any of it.

“She hurt you.”

“She’s sick. She doesn’t know any better.”

Ripper has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from retorting at that. He knows Mrs. Evans is sixes and sevens on her best day. By why the fuck is that Randy’s problem?

“Couldn’t you just get her a nurse? She doesn’t have to come stumbling through here every time she’s in a fit, does she?”

“Sure, if I could afford one.”

Randall’s tone is light as he takes a drink of the beer that he’d rescued from the fridge, but Ripper can see the twitch in his eyebrow and knows he’s venturing into “start an argument” territory. And he doesn’t want that. No matter how annoyed he is, starting a fight isn’t fixing to make him feel better.

So, he lifts his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Alright. She’s your mum and this is technically your place -”

“It’s your place too,” Randall interjects, immediately, but Ripper waves that off.

“-I just don’t like to see you get hurt, is all. I lo…”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The word’s already starting forming on the tip of his tongue and he has to think fast to change it.

“...gically. Erm, I logically think that you deserve better, mate.

Randall looks confused… but then just shrugs again.

“It is what it is.”

 _Doesn’t have to be, though,_ Ripper wants to say. He wants to tell him that things can get better. But how can he say that if he doesn’t even know how to tell him that he loves him?

 

* * *

4.

The fourth time he almost says it, Ripper wakes up to an empty bed.

It’s not all that unusual; Randall usually rises before him, whether for classes or just because he’s not wired to sleep through the entire day the way that Ripper is. He yawns, and stretches, casting a glance at the crumpled side of the duvet that was pushed off of Randall’s slight form. A bizarre sense of longing shoots through Ripper, and he pushes himself out of the bed and stumbles from the bedroom to the rest of the flat, where Randall can be found in the kitchen, yawning as he sets up their breakfast.

Ripper never really ate breakfast until he’d somehow found himself moved in with Randall. Randy had taken one, horrified look at Ripper shotgunning a beer at 9 a.m as a way of sustenance and had been cooking breakfast for him, every day, ever since.

Ripper stretched up, trying to get a look at what Randall was busying himself with, today… and then had to turn away, very quickly. Soft boiled eggs with toast soldiers - his favourite. He must have mentioned, in passing, once that his mum used to make that for him and that it’d been his favourite, but he had no idea that Randall had been listening or would even remember him saying that.

And he’d never tell him that it meant as much to Ripper as it did. That’s little kid stuff, innit? The last thing he needed was to be laughed at for his breakfast choices.

Still. It did move him that Randall took the time to make it for him and he crosses the space between him to come up behind him and hold him as he cuts the toast into soldiers. He places a kiss just below Randall’s ear and grins at the blush that creeps into his face.

He likes mornings like these. He could stand like this, for hours, arms wrapped around Randall’s hips, head bowed so that his forehead is resting against Randall’s dark hair, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

“Don’t fall asleep.” Randall warns, setting the pieces of toast on the plate next to the eggs that are nestled into their cups. “I don’t think I could carry you back to bed.”

“Mm… sure you could.” Ripper argues, faking a yawn and pushing down with a little more weight like he’s already half asleep, though not so much that he’ll actually hurt him.

“C’mon. I made you breakfast, and the soldiers are no good after fifteen minutes. Toast gets soggy.”

Ripper lets go with the greatest of reluctance, making a beeline for the kettle. As good as Randall is with food - he’s got that Italian touch, innit? - he’s piss-poor at making tea and that’s always been Ripper’s job.

He looks back at Randall and that longing shoots through him, again, when he sees how delicately he sets the plates on their little table and how pleased with himself he seems to be when he sweeps his gaze over the spread.

It’s a little moment. Short, sweet, and perfect… not unlike Randall, himself, and Ripper grins.

He opens his mouth.

He might actually say it, this time.

But then Randall looks over at him and he loses his nerve. No, not yet. This moment is too good to ruin.

“...Two sugars okay, or do you want your usual ten?” Ripper asks, instead, only half-kidding.

“...Let’s compromise and do six.”

Ripper laughs, but his heart’s a little heavier when he looks back to the kettle.

 

* * *

5. 

The fifth time he almost says it, Randall’s crying.

It’s nothing that Ripper has never seen before. Randall’s not as afraid of his emotions as Ripper is - he’s not as cut off and he cries when he needs to. And, right now, apparently he needs to. And even though it’s not a new sight, Ripper’s still panicking.

He’s panicking because they’re in bed together.

He’s panicking because they’d been having sex and now Randall’s crying.

Something’s wrong. Something happened; Ripper must have done something, only he doesn’t know what it is or what to do. Normally, he’d pull him close, run his thumb under his teary eyes, and croon to him until he was soothed. But he doesn’t know if Randall wants him to touch him, now.

“Randall? Randy - mate, what’s wrong?!”

The words tumble from Ripper’s mouth, desperately, but Randall’s just curled up into himself. Staring past him. Panicked and lost. And it takes Ripper a second to realize that Randall’s not exactly in his own head, at the mo’.

This has happened before. Not like this - it was after Phil flicked away his cigarette with less grace than usual and accidentally hit Randall with it, burning his hand. A minor injury, but one that came with a whole lotta memories of the last bloke that Randy’d been with, who’d do that sort of thing intentionally.

So, Ripper does the only thing he can think to. He gently touches Randall’s back and speaks to him, softly, as he gasps out ragged sobs with enough force to shake the mattress they’re lying on.

“Shhh… shh, shh, shh. It’s okay, Randy.”

Randall shakes his head. His hair falls into his eyes, and Ripper brushes it back.

“Just breathe, Mate. Nice and slow. Breathe for me, mate. Just like this.”

Ripper gently takes Randall’s hand in his own, pressing it against his chest so that Randall can feel the rhythm of his chest rising and falling with every measured breath and train his own breathing to match the pace. Ripper’s free hand gently rubs circles against his back, soothing him as best he can.

He knows how to deal with panic attacks. He’d had a fair few of his own when he’d first started his schooling. He wasn’t just going to Oxford for a degree, after all. Training started as soon as the higher education did. It was heavy stuff for a sixteen-year-old to deal with. Stories of death and loss and suffering and darkness. Breathing exercises became his second nature.

But for all that he could do to talk Randall down from the attack, dealing with the root of it? Well… “Rape” wasn’t even a word that you used when talking to blokes. Randall never said it, but they both knew that Brian’s abuse was more than just hitting and burning.

How do you deal with something like that?

How do you help someone else deal with it?

Slowly, ever so slowly, Randall’s breathing came to match his. He shuddered as his sobs began to subside, and Ripper took his chance to inch away from him, grabbing Randall’s boxers and tee from where they’d been casually discarded against the floor and push them into his arms.

“Here. Here, mate. Do you want to put these back on?”

Randall’s breathing hitched again.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - please don’t make me leave.”

Ripper’s heart twinged in his chest and he bit his tongue so hard he could taste blood. He wanted to hit something or someone. Shatter what had hurt Randall like this and make him so afraid.

But he can’t do that. And he can’t give Randall reason to be afraid of him, too, so he only shakes his head.

“I’m not making you go anywhere, Randall. I promise. Just think you’ll feel better if you’re dressed - you want me to get dressed, too?”

Shakily, Randall nodded. So, Ripper quickly retrieved his own boxers from the floor and yanked them on, showing Randall as soon as he was covered. That seemed to satisfy him enough that he pulled his own clothes back on with shaky hands and then lie back down against the bed, looking miserable with himself.

Ripper pulled him close, slowly, giving him room to push him back if he didn’t want to be touched. Randall didn’t, though, and Ripper held him tight.

“...Are you okay?” He asks, even though he knows Randall’s not.

Randall shakes his head.

“That’s alright. You don’t have to be.” Ripper promises.

“I’m sorry,” Randall whispers, anyway. “I...I didn’t mean to freak out and ruin it. I wanted - you were just - and I - I’m such a fuck up.”

“You don’t have to apologize. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Ripper promises, shaking his head at the desperate words. “You didn’t ruin anything. We’re fine, yeah? We don’t have to do anything else. _You_ don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just… did I hurt you, mate?”

His throat burns with the words. He shouldn’t even be asking, but he has to know if he had any part in making him break down like that.

“You didn’t,” Randall says, immediately, shaking his head. “I just… I don’t usually think about it, but sometimes things remind me and it just…”

His words trail off. His breathing uneven again. Ripper gently strokes his arm.

“It’s okay.” He says, again, hating himself for how relieved he is that it wasn’t him. That he didn’t hurt him. “It’s going to be just fine. We can catch some kip, and you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Ripper hopes that’s true. He really, really does.

“...Are you mad?” Randall asks, his voice small.

“No. No, I’m not mad. You don’t have to - if you ever need me to stop, no matter what we’re doing, I will. Okay? I’ll never get mad at you. I’ll still -”

Love him.

He wants to say that he’ll still love him, but that’s not the right thing to say to him, right now. He can’t put that kind of weight on his shoulders, now.

“-care about you. Yeah? Not going anywhere.”

That seems to soothe Randall, enough. At least so that he settles down against the bed and nods.

“...Thanks.” He says, after a moment, cuddling back into Ripper.

Ripper nods, even though Randall’s eyes are closed.

“Any time.”

 

* * *

+1

The sixth time that Ripper almost tells him, they’re a mass of tangled limbs on a beaten-down couch.

Ripper’s got Randall pinned down against the cushions, his mouth on Randal’s and his hips moving hard against his, through their trousers, working up a sweat just teasing each other while they wait for the other’s to show up at the old, abandoned warehouse that doubles as their “club” of sorts.

The candles, salt, and ancient text have already been laid out by Ripper’s careful hands, and now those same hands are exploring every inch of Randall’s body, copping as much of a feel as he can get before they have company. They’ll be frenzied, later, pent-up on both each other and magic… and right now, Ripper’s patience to wait ‘til later is wearing thin. 

Ripper bites his shoulder.

“Easy…” Randall protests, as Ripper’s hands slide down his stomach, under his shirt, and threaten to start undoing his belt. “I’m sure they’ll be here, soon.”  
  
“Taking too fucking long…” Ripper mumbles, his face still pressed down into Randall’s shoulder, his tongue lapping at the mark he’d left with his teeth. “I could have had you twice by now.”  
  
“It’s cute that you think I’d let you strip me down on this couch…”  
  
“It’s cute that you think you could have stopped me.” Ripper retorts, but his hands venture back from Randall’s belt. He never pushes past father than Randall wants.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to tease. He pulls his hands out from under Randall’s shirt, just to hear him whine, and then leans down to press another, fierce kiss to his mouth. His tongue slips against Randall, drawing another moan from him...

And, of course, that was when the others arrived.  
  
Deidre and Philip came pushing through, first, the latter of the two making a face at the sight of them tangled up together. Deidre, however, was all business and grabbed one of the texts, anxiously reviewing like they hadn’t been doing this for a year, already.  
  
Randall started to try and sit up, trying to right his clothes and cover the newly forming hickies that Ripper had left in patterns of red against his skin, but Ripper was having none of that and pushed him back down, not interested in getting up - in a different way than he already was - until everyone had come through the door.  
  
“Are you ever not on top of him?” Philip asked, plopping down on the floor next to the couch since they were taking up most of it. He shot Ripper a disparaging look but was met only with a cheeky grin. “Seriously, give the poor boy some time to breathe.”  
  
“Fuck off.” Ripper snaps, just as Randall mutters, “Just because you don’t get any.”  
  
Thomas and Ethan came breezing through the door, next, with Thomas taking the lead and dropping down next to D, and Ethan casting a withering look at the two of them tangled up together on the couch instead of going over the spell but Ripper just gives his best cheery grin in response.

Ripper leans in and gives Randall one last, quick kiss before finally pulling back away from him and giving him space to pull himself back together.  
  
“Right, then. Now that we’re all here…”

Ripper’s all business now, his voice shifting from husky with want to cool and commanding. The sort of tone that brooked no argument.

“Whose turn is it?” Deidre asked, looking away from the text she was pouring over.  
  
All eyes are Ripper, now. He’s the one who always decides. Usually without any obvious rhyme or reason.  
  
“Randall’s,” Ripper said, without missing a beat, leaning over to grab Randall by the shoulder of his shirt and pulling him out of the corner of the couch and closer to him, again. “Everyone else... go get in the circle.”  
  
There was some light grumbling from everyone that hadn’t been chosen, and Randall’s dark eyes flashed to Ripper’s cooler blue-greens.  
  
“Me?” He asks, under his breath, chewing nervously on his bottom lip.  
  
“You,” Ripper said, not interested in sharing his reasoning. He leaned over and pressed a sloppy kiss to Randall’s cheek, instead, the kind that’s meant to make him turn red with embarrassment. “Get over there. Lie down, and try not to think too much about my cock, yeah?”  
  
Grumbling under his breath, Randall clambered off the couch and rose to his feet, stretching and eyeing the cold patch of floor that he’s going to be lying on with an expression of distaste. Riper knows he won’t even be able to feel it after a few minutes of chanting, but it’s still uncomfortable for those few minutes and he does pity him, a little.  
  
So, he rises from the couch, too, moving to step past him but pauses, midway, and grabs him by the back of his neck, pulling him into one last, fierce kiss.

He wants to say it, now. Tell Randall that he loves him, but that might shatter his concentration. So, he won’t. He’ll wait.  
  
“You’ll be fine.” He says, instead, a bright grin on his face. “See you on the other side, yeah?”

And as soon as they’re done, Ripper will tell him.

 

He swears he will, this time.


End file.
